'Crawshaws in Berwickshire,' says the author of the _Popular Rhymes of Berwickshire_, 'was once the abode of an industrious Brownie, who both saved the corn and thrashed it for several seasons. At length, after one harvest, some person thoughtlessly remarked that the corn was not well mowed or piled up in the barn. The sprite took offence at this, and the next night threw the whole of the corn over the Raven Crag, a precipice about two miles off, muttering--
"It's no weel mowed! It's no weel mowed! Then it's ne'er be mowed by me again. I'll scatter it o'er the Raven stone, And they'll hae some wark ere it's mowed again."'
The North Lancashire Hobthrusts, however, do not seem to have been made to disappear by man's ingratitude, but, like the Irish Cluricaun and the Scotch Brownie, were to be driven away by kindness. In one instance, a tailor, for whom a Hobthrust had done some work, gratefully made him a coat and hood for winter wear, and in the night the workman was heard bidding farewell to his old quarters--
'Throb-thrush has got a new coat and new hood, And he'll never do no more good.'
Readers of the Brothers Grimm and lovers of George Cruikshank will not need to be reminded how the grateful shoemaker deprived himself of the assistance of the elves. In the German story, however, as in Breton ones, although the elves depart, prosperity continues to bless the labours of the people whose practical gratitude has driven the little beings away.
The Hob which, according to Harrison Ainsworth, haunted the Gorge of Cliviger, does not appear to have been at all domesticated, the novelist, in the only allusion he makes to it, characterising it as 'a frightful hirsute demon, yclept Hobthrust.' In the Fylde country, however, the lubber fiends seem to have been as industrious as was that of our legend. Tradition tells of one at Rayscar which not only housed the grain but also got the horses ready for the journey to the distant market. At Hackensall Hall one took the Celtic form of a great horse, and required only a pie in reward for its toil.
The Hobs of the neighbouring county of Yorkshire are credited with greater powers than those required for the rapid performance of household duties. One of these beings is still said to haunt a cave in the vicinity of the old-world hamlet of Runswick. To this place anxious and superstitious mothers brought their ailing little ones, and as they stood at the mouth of the cavity, cried, 'Hob, my bairn's gettent kinkcough (whooping-cough?), takkt off, takkt off!' In the same district there is a haunted tumulus called 'Obtrash Roque,' rendered by Walcott 'the Heap of Hob-o'-the-Hurst.' Of the bogle denizen of this mound a story similar to that told by Mr. Crofton Croker, in Roby's _Traditions (Clegg Hall Boggart)_, is current in the district. A farmer who was bothered by the spirit, determined to remove to a quieter locality, and as the carts were leaving with the goods and implements a neighbour cried out, 'It's flittin yo' are,' when the Hob at once replied, from a churn, 'Ay, we're flitting;' upon which the farmer thought he might as well remain where he was. Similar flitting stories, however, are told of the Scandinavian _Nis_, the Irish _Cluricaun_, the Welsh _Bwbach_, and the Polish _Ickrzycki_.